The minister was gone sometime and the guest grew impatient, stamping
up and down the piazza and kicking a porch rocker out of his path. He
looked at his watch and frowned, wondering how near he was to the end
of his detour, and then he started in pursuit of his man, tramping
through the Severn house as if it were a public garage, and almost
running into the minister as he swung the door open. Severn was
approaching with a lighted lantern in one hand and a plate of brown
bread and butter, with a cup of steaming coffee in his other hand.

Laurence Shafton stopped abruptly, a curse on his lips, but something,
either the genial face of the minister, or the aroma of the coffee,
silenced him. And indeed there was something about Graham Severn that
was worth looking at. Tall and well built, with a face at once strong
and sweet, and with a certain luminousness about it that almost seemed
like transparency to let the spirit shine through, although there was
nothing frail about his well cut features.

Laurence Shafton, looking into the frank kind eyes of the minister
suddenly became aware that this man had taken a great deal of trouble
for him. He hadn't brought any liquor, probably because he did not know
enough of the world to understand what it was he wanted, or because he
was playing a joke. As he looked into those eyes and noted with his
half befuddled senses the twinkle playing at the corners he was not
quite sure but the joke was on himself. But however it was the coffee
smelled good and he took it and blundered out a brief "Thanks."

Eating his brown bread and butter, the like of which had never entered
his pampered lips before, and taking great swoops of the hot strong
coffee he followed this strange new kind of a man out to the car in the
moonlight, paying little heed to the careful examination that ensued,